Artist exceeds the limits permitted by brain researchers
~a short story~
by Jon Rappoport
September 18, 2013
The year was 2054. The artist, living on the edge of the city in a small room, picked up his messages and discovered one from the Bureau of Mind Management. It was an order to appear.
In an office on the 15th floor of a virtual building, he sat in a chair surrounded by a ring of yellow tulips. A holographic interrogator materialized.
“We have a report on you,” the i-figure said. “It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?”
“Well,” the artist said, “I’m composing a symphony.”
“A symphony? What is that?”
“It’s a piece of music written for a large orchestra.”
“I find no extant orchestras in the country.”
“That’s true,” the artist said. “Nevertheless, I’m composing.”
“Why?” the i-figure said.
“For that day when an orchestra may come into being.”
“Your thought impulses entered ranges we were not able to summarize.”
“I suppose that means your instruments are limited,” the artist said.
There was a pause.
“Your statement is incendiary,” the i-figure said. “It suggests we are imposing a restriction. As you well know, the science is settled on this point. We measure and interpret thought that contributes to an overall positive outcome, for the population at large.”
“I’m aware of that, yes,” the artist said. “But the science rests on certain assumptions. I would call it greatest good as a lowest common denominator.”
“What do you mean?” the i-figure said.
“You assume a certain mindset contributes to the consensus reality you favor. You legislate or permit a range of thought that will produce the consensus.”
“That’s a gross oversimplification.”
“It doesn’t describe the algorithms you employ,” the artist said, “but all in all I believe my summary is correct. You’re reality makers. You monitor thought-emissions, and when you find a departure from ‘combined averages,’ as you call them, you issue a citation.”
“What is this symphony you’re composing?” the i-figure said.
“It’s impossible to explain. It’s music.”
“It has a specific message?”
“No. If it did, I would write out the message and leave it at that.”
Pause.
“Why have we not heard of you before?” said the i-figure.
“Because I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”
“What happened?”
“I became bored. A machine could make those pictures. So I decided to compose music.”
“The Happiness Holos are an essential social program.”
“Perhaps,” the artist said. “They encourage people to stay on the positive side of a fantasy-construct called Positive&Negative, which as you know is a State-sponsored theme. But what is superficially indicated by those two opposing sets is, in fact, fuel for the fire.”
“Fuel for what fire?”
“The creative fire. The artist can use and transform any material.”
“Where did you hear such a thing?” the i-figure said.
“Nowhere,” the artist said. “I’ve experienced it many times.”
“Your views are highly eccentric,” the i-figure said. “I will have to consult your childhood history to understand their roots.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do you any good.”
“Why not?”
“Because your version, the US Department of Psychology version of cause and effect, is propaganda for the masses.”
“This is your idea of a joke?” the i-figure said.
“Not at all.”
“When you compose this…symphony, how do you think?”
“It’s not thinking in the way you use the term,” the artist said.
“No? Then what do you do?”
“I invent sound.”
“Preposterous.”
“Large masses of sound.”
“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”
“None,” the artist said. “I assume you’re from the The Library of Structures. You won’t find my activity in the catalogs.”
“All structures and patterns are contained in the files.”
“I doubt that,” the artist said. “But regardless, I don’t invent through pattern.”
“No?” the i-figure said. “How then?”
“I improvise.”
“And this term refers to?”
“Something done spontaneously,” the artist said.
“And you exceed prescribed ranges of thought in the process.”
“Perhaps. I would hope so. I don’t keep track.”
“You’re being flippant,” the i-figure said.
“I knew you’d cite me,” the artist said. “I’m just trying to enjoy myself until you pass sentence.”
“There is no sentence,” the i-figure said. “You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider. We direct resources. We question. We determine.”
“I’m afraid,” the artist said, “that your and my idea of ‘determine’ are quite different.”
“Let me ask you this,” the i-figure said. “When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’?”
“Not if you’re referring to some fairyland. But all thought is basically non-material. The brain registers it after the fact. Thought, the real thing, doesn’t take place in the brain.”
“You’re deluded,” the i-figure said. “And disordered.”
“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man. But I’m sure you have charges to attach.”
“You live in a society,” the i-figure said. “To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, from which all good things flow, science has discovered that thought should occur within certain parameters.”
“If you insist.”
“We want to study you. It’s a great honor to be called. You could help extend the boundaries of research.”
The artist was about to ask whether he had a choice, when a holographic webbing that looked curiously like a rainbow clamped him tight in his chair. The pressure increased.
“We register some variation from the norm in your present thinking,” the i-figure said.
“What present thinking?” the artist said.
“What you’re thinking right now.”
“That was quick.”
“The readouts are instantaneous…what are you doing?”
The artist took up from where he’d last left off, composing his symphony.
“I’m starting the third movement,” he said.
“Wait,” the i-figure said.
His left arm sizzled and disappeared.
“This is the thunderstorm section,” the artist said.
The pressure of the rainbow around him relaxed.
The virtual building blinked off, on, off.
The i-figure said, “What you’re doing is disruptive.”
“It’s because of how you set your frequencies,” the artist said.
He continued composing.
All along the major esplanade, and in the lake area, and in the industrial parks and residential high rises, virtual structures shattered like glass.
Then adjoining suburban towns blew away into the sky of the communal apparatus. The i-figure reminded the artist of one of those ancient neon signs, broken, buzzing, blinking. Finally, it went dark.
Ten thousand holographic government buildings started to explode, froze, and vanished.
The artist said to no one, “I’m just composing. Well, maybe not just.”
He was suddenly back in his room at the edge of the city. But now there was no edge and no city. The room felt like a vehicle traveling through space.
“I suppose this is what they mean by a negative consequence,” he said.
The room increased velocity and…jumped.
Jon Rappoport
The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com
Your work absolutely inspires me to keep on being creative and encouraging this is others. Thank you.
Reblogged this on Jericho777's Blog.
I guess you can’t control the creative mind
Artist Exceeds Limits Permitted By Brain Researchers
http://lucas2012infos.wordpress.com/2013/09/19/artist-exceeds-limits-permitted-by-brain-researchers-19-september-2013/
Some people may think this allegory you’ve written isn’t possible, but a version of this already happened in the Soviet Union under Stalin with the composer Shostakovich. The state approved what could or could not be performed at the Bolshoi, and Shostakovich was basically hounded out of this world by thugs wanting him to compose silly little songs glorifying the all-consuming, mass murdering state.
I see that scientists have now claimed to map the “eleven brain areas” responsible for imagination. They intend to use this to make their computers imaginative enough to replace humans. Time to fly!
Like you, I do some of my imagining and creating in language, but human languages don’t have words for most of what I think, feel, and experience, so I wrote my own language. Imagine facing the “void” of that canvas! Forty some years it took.
256 beautiful letters, all arcs and curves, spirals and loops. None of my eight thousand some odd new words translated into English or any human language at all. These words worked as “idioms” to express what I love and humans have little interest in. I also wrote them in colors that encoded meanings, especially the shifting flows of perspective, viewpoint, and states of consciousness from which we express experience.
Different human languages have different words for the same shared concepts so they are translatable. My language was designed to represent meanings that humans have no words for, so parts of it had no translation. There were no “things” in that language, only experiences by an experiencer viewed from a particular perspective and within a particular context. It therefore had no word for “is,” which we take as one of the deceptive lies that builds the matrix of Earth.
I designed this language to “exceed the limits” of current human thinking, feeling, and experiencing. I didn’t share it with others since I wished to protect myself and them from the “negative consequences” you mention. Non disruption of primitive cultures is part of any benevolent ethics. Most humans couldn’t learn it even if they wanted to since they aren’t aware of, interested in, or willing to imagine the inner world of experience to which it points. My inner “diverse” shows up for me as vast and rich as the outer “universe” that humanity claims to share.
As with your “music,” this language enabled me to create vehicles within consciousness that travel through inner space to other worlds. The “worm hole portals” outside of space and time exist inside of us, not outside. That excludes artificial intelligences and robot probes, so NASA and SETI weren’t interested in such nonsense.
In any case, my curiosity about humankind got the better of me some years back and I made an experiment of sharing a tiny bit of this language with three trusted friends. Their discomfort, fear, and sudden disinterest surprised me and reminded me of the importance of remaining hidden, occult, mysterious, and secret about some things, not in order to deceive, seduce, or gain advantage, but to protect.
They got to watch me typing away in my many colored alien font and then use a program to reduce it through a series of steps into an intermediate language I created to teach with. This was based on Indo-European word roots with prefixes and suffixes, mostly Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin. This had one tenth the letters, thus the 26 letters of the standard alphabet and offered enough intelligibility that a reader could learn to link some experience to the meanings of many of the words.
My friends were startled, amazed, and troubled, but utterly uninterested in anything beyond this short demonstration. They seemed to wish I hadn’t shown them and only to escape the room. They thought it strange and weird, and had no questions. None of them brought up the subject again. I had no idea it would be so threatening, but this led me to some ethical soul searching. I realized I had been incautious in my own curiosity at their response, and now needed to remove this technology from Earth before it got stolen and misused to cause some harm.
I secure erased my computer disks, removed them, and hammered the plates to bits. I then bought new disk drives and no longer dabble in alien technologies while on Earth. I only play this mystery within the secure confines of the distant worlds I visit when I wish to create colorful poetic symphonies of meaning music beyond the mind box of matrix bound words and ideas.
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